


The Floral Lexicon

by blondeonblonde



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Attraction, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Language of Flowers, M/M, emotional unintelligence, mentions of cases, secret code
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-11 01:58:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12924894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondeonblonde/pseuds/blondeonblonde
Summary: Lewis and Hathaway work a case revolving around the Language of Flowers and decide to create their own secret code. It's a silly, childish game created during lighthearted post case banter but it turns out to be the catalyst to draw them together.





	1. The Language of Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very silly concept and was originally going to be a cracky story about 1000 words long. I have, however, warmed to it, and my brain has completely run away with the idea. It's now going to be much longer and semi-serious (or as serious as the concept will allow!).  
> It's set somewhere around series 6 - James is not yet an Inspector, Robbie and Laura are not together and Innocent is still in charge. Enjoy!

Inspector Lewis bounded along the corridor of Oxford CID with a noticeable spring in his step, feeling uncharacteristically contented with the world. Not only had they just solved their latest case, a series of violent kidnappings, but they’d also been able to get to the latest victim before she had been hurt.

Hathaway, as usual, had been instrumental in unravelling the more intangible clues to provide a key to solving the case. It was he who noticed a book on the Victorian art of Floriography in a random house during their door-to-door enquiries, as well as spot a strange display of flowers in the shop window of a shabby florist’s close to the scene of several of the kidnappings. Robbie didn’t know why the two things had caught James’ eye, but the case had come to rest on these two details.

They discovered that the members of a local gang were using flowers to communicate with each other. Their leader, the florist Lucas Fisher, was giving updates and orders through the displays in the window. In some ways it had been a clever system, there were 7 pots of flowers in the window of the florists and each one was for a specific member of the gang. They all had a copy of the book on the floral code and could therefore interpret the messages. Each day the leader would put a different bunch of flowers in each pot to give out a message to that person, for example deadly nightshade for ‘silence’ or begonia for ‘beware’ and the gang members only had to walk past each day to get their messages without having a face-to-face meeting or rely on written communication. It was an elaborate scheme born of a paranoid and delusional mind, but Robbie could see the merits in it.  In any case, using the Floral Lexicon, the dictionary they were using for their code, Hathaway had been able to discover the weak link in the gang, a Mr Hamish Struthers who had yellow carnations in his bucket, and therefore the message ‘You have disappointed me’. It was not hard to get him to turn on his leader and the rest of the gang and they had arrested all 7 remaining members that afternoon.  

Robbie rounded the corner and opened the door to their shared office. Unsurprisingly Hathaway had his nose in a book, several of which were stacked up on his desk. They had taken into evidence all of the books on Floriography that the gang members had (34 books on the subject from the florist plus the 8 copies of The Floral Lexicon from each of the gang members), and it appeared James was attempting to commit the entire lot to memory.

Robbie knew that one of his favourite parts of his job was having to become a temporary expert in whatever subjects related to the crime they were investigating. This being Oxford, there always seemed to be some obscure or esoteric theme to delve into. Whether it was alchemical images, fantasy literature or the theory of criminal dangerousness, James enjoyed having the excuse to learn a range of knowledge he would not otherwise seek out.  As for himself, he would much rather a simple domestic, without all of the cryptic mucking about, but luckily he now had Hathaway to deal with all of that.

He loved the time just after the conclusion of a case, where they had an hour or so to reflect and debrief together before the pressure of paperwork started to encroach. Wanting to savour the short-lived bubble around the two of them, he decided not to sit the other side of the office from James, at his usual desk, but instead rolled his chair around to the side of James’ desk and sat close enough to reach the pile of books. Hathaway didn’t look up, keeping his eyes firmly on the book in his hand.

Robbie picked up the nearest book and flicked through it, stopping to look at a couple of the brightly painted pictures. It was the original Victorian dictionary ‘The Floral Lexicon’ explaining the code used to communicate using the different flowers.

“You an expert yet?” Robbie asked.

“Hardly.” James huffed as he looked up for the first time since Robbie’s arrival. “It’s actually much more complicated than I’d originally thought.”

“Oh yes?”

“Well, apparently in the Victorian era there were many books like these,” he said as he tapped the book Robbie was holding, “but they didn’t always agree on what the meaning were. This edition for example,” he pointed at a small volume to his left, “claimed that petunias meant ‘being with you is soothing’ but others, like the one the gang was using, claimed they communicated anger or resentment.”

“Hmm, wouldn’t want to get those mixed up.”

“And it’s not just the flowers that have meaning,” James continued, “but the combination of colour and type, as well as the situation in which it is presented.” He was rambling excitedly. Once he got into his stride on a subject he could talk on it for hours. Probably be sitting here waiting for Robbie to get back so he could give this lecture on what he’d discovered. Robbie grinned to himself indulgently at the thought. It was quite sweet of James really.

“What does that mean?”

“Apparently the messages rely on providing a question or answer dependant on previous interaction. It’s like when we were talking to Struthers. He’d asked Lucas Fisher when he should send the ransom demand, and in his bucket that day were 10 primroses. The primroses stood for evening, and the 10 of them the hour – but a message of ’10 in the evening’ wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else, unless they had heard the question.”

It was clever, and Hathaway was right, much more nuanced and wide in scope than he’d originally thought. It appealed to his boyhood obsession with spies, when his group of friends used to talk of invisible ink and dead letter drops.

“Hmm. A truly secret code. Might be useful. Perhaps we should adopt it – you know how Innocent’s always going on about learning to communicate more effectively!” Robbie joked, his eyes twinkling in amusement.

“How would you use it? I can’t quite imagine you with a floral buttonhole, Sir!”

“I don’t know, might brighten up me old suit.” Robbie plucked at the limp lapels on his worn-out jacket.  

“How about I start arranging daily bouquets on your desk?”

“Not very subtle for a secret code, that.”  

“No….” Hathaway said thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair and pulling one leg up across his lap. Robbie caught a glimpse of his bright mustard socks. “Of course… anything can be a code if the participants agree on the meanings.”

“So it doesn’t have to be flowers then? It could be anything?”

“Well, anything with a variety of options, colours, shapes, patterns…”

“How about socks?” Robbie grinned and pointed at Hathaway’s leg. His aversion to black socks had always been something of an in-joke between the two of them.  “They’d make a great secret code! Visible but inconspicuous. You could flash a message to someone just by crossing your legs.”  


James looked down at his foot and smiled. “What would you have them say?”

“Perhaps you should use it to signal your mood in the mornings, let me know which side of Sergeant Hathaway I’ve got to look forward to during the day! Sullen or mischievous, smart-arsed or uninformed…”

“Ha! Some would say I’m always smart-arsed.”

“Oh, I’ve seen you flounder once or twice.” Robbie said, although he hated to acknowledge that. Those cases where he can’t get his head in the game were always painful for both of them.

“What would these say then?” James asked, pointing at his mustard clad feet with a raised eyebrow in challenge.

“Uh…I know…Let’s see what the Floral Lexicon says about it.” He flipped to the page on colours and ran his finger down the page until he found the right section.

James looked at him in playful anticipation, hand still clasped around his ankle, keeping it in place across his lap.

“Yellow apparently means ‘joy and lightheartedness’.” Robbie read “So… you’re pleased about the successful completion of the case?”

James shook his head.

“A very simplistic reading, Sir! I’d have to add that they’re not fully yellow- so perhaps the correct meaning is that I’m pleased about the end of the case, but dreading having to log all of the evidence.” Robbie was not surprised about that – there was a whole shop full of flowers they’d have to photograph and log somehow.

“If you’re going to be that elaborate about it, it’s a good job you’ve got a wide range of coloured socks - to match your many and complex moods!”

“I’ve got a particularly obnoxious lime green pair which could be ‘I’m feeling particularly facetious today’.” Hathaway smirked.

“Yeah, an’ those royal blue ones I noticed you in last week could be ‘I’m going to be more of an awkward sod that usual.”

“What about you then?”  
  
“I only own black socks.” Robbie said with a finality, putting an end to the conversation by pushing himself up out of his seat and moving his chair back around to his own desk.  “Right then… Which of these files to start with first? And you…” he pointed to Hathaway, “get your head out of those books and start logging them.”


	2. Challenge accepted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided that this story is going to be set over quite a few months (the boys can't be rushed into anything it seems) so i'm going to write this as shortish chapters dipping in and out of their lives.

The following morning saw them neck deep in tedious paperwork about the case. Checking witness statements, filling in reports and starting to prepare the case for the CPS. They had been at it in relative silence for a couple of hours before James cracked and announced he needed coffee before he could write another word. Lewis assented, glad of the chance for a quick break and they both strolled down to the canteen, rolling their shoulders and wrists after the morning sat at their computers.

The coffee from the canteen was not especially good, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as it could be. They had a proper machine and everything, so James could have his frothy cappuccino-latte-whatsit without leaving the station. Things had come on a bit from his early days in the force, where you could barely get a recognisable cup of tea. 

James queued up for their order while Robbie gathered sugar and spoons and went to sit down. The only spaces were on the rigid plastic seats, those bolted to the floor rather than one of the coveted armchairs (the lads from fraud always seemed to get to those first), but it was good just to be out of the office.

When they were settled, waiting for their drinks to cool from scolding to drinkable, Hathaway stretched his legs out to the side of the long Formica table. The action seemed so deliberate and almost awkward that Robbie had to look down at his legs. Hathaway caught his eye and gave him that cheeky side grin.

“Mint green, Sir.” He said, glancing down and wiggling his brightly coloured ankles. “Green is the colour of assent – Agreement to indulge you in this exercise in enhanced communication. Mint is to add an air of nonchalance and scepticism as to the emotional eloquence of my hosiery.”

Robbie smirked indulgently, eyes locked on the proffered ankle, taking in the colour and the message. Trust Hathaway to have socks with a wider vocabulary than his own. He felt an absurd thrill of anticipation (they were only socks, for God’s sake, pleased that their silly joke was going to take shape.  

Message delivered, James tucked his long legs back under the table and they both smiled into their coffee cups for the rest of their break.

The following day James’ socks announced themselves to Robbie before he did, being so bright that they practically shone.

“Butter yellow, Sir.” He declared as he took off his coat and hung it on the hook behind the office door. “Yellow is for light-heartedness, according to the Floral Lexicon; and this particular shade shows you how entertaining I’m finding this game.”

   
Robbie could hear a thick streak of sarcasm through this explanation. He thought it was more that James was testing the boundaries of what he could get away with wearing at work. Perhaps he was feeling self-conscious. Those monstrosities, bordering on neon, were certainly pushing acceptability. But they didn’t have any interviews to conduct that day, no grieving family members or press to talk to, so the only person who was going to be offended by them was Robbie, and he certainly wasn’t going to push back, give Hathaway any excuse to cry off.

The next day he wore quite the opposite. The lightest ’powder blue’. When questioned on his choice he leaned back in his chair, gestured wide with his arms and said “I’m feeling calm and serene today. Ready for anything the world throws at us, Sir.”

Robbie grinned. “Just as well Sergeant, there’s a Mrs Bagshot downstairs who needs to talk to someone about some persistent antisocial behaviour in the area.” He tried not to laugh as Hathaway groaned and pulled himself out of his chair, muttering something about bringing a change of socks into the station.

On the third day Robbie guessed what his purple socks were for before James got around to explaining. “I’m guessing those are for Dr Hobson?”

James nodded. “Yes -She was a Godsend yesterday, sorted out all that nonsense with the DNA results before I arrested the wrong man. How did you know?”  
“Purple’s for success isn’t it?” He remembered that much from reading it the other day. “And that was a pretty successful day for you both. I was sorry to have been the other side of the city for most of it!”

“It wasn’t anything to do with me. Purple’s also for admiration. She deserves the dubious honour of my hosiery dedication.”

********

 Robbie expected the game to last a couple of days at best, but before long weeks had passed and Hathaway still continued with it, Robbie a receptive audience to his daily confessions. He looked forward, in fact, to those few minutes each day when he could focus solely on James and his messages.

 Sometimes he would explain _why_ he had chosen the colour, mostly if he was making some kind of joke. For instance, they had a case involving Mrs Daphne Hume, who refused to help them in anyway and was incredibly resistant to the investigation. The next day he wore the palest pink socks claiming the colour matched the Daphne Odora flower, which stands for a ‘desire to please’.

But other times he would remain enigmatic and Robbie had to consult the floral dictionary to get a clue. On these occasions James would usually confirm or deny whatever interpretation Robbie gave, until he had guessed right. Those sorts of days were for the tricky emotions, the ones James struggled to vocalise. Saying yes or no to Robbie’s guesses was a bit easier than having to come right out and say ‘I’m having an existential crisis’ or ‘I feel like I let that family down today’.

Each day, Robbie added the colour and message to his mental Hathaway dictionary. He cherished each new bit of information. It felt good to know what James was thinking because he couldn’t half be enigmatic sometimes. Each day felt like a new layer being unpeeled, exposing the truth of him.

After a few weeks Robbie started to become slightly concerned for his sock budget. Surely Hathaway didn’t already have all of those pairs? His underwear draw must be overflowing.


	3. A mistake

It had been a good day. A good five days, in fact. Their current case was going well, gaining momentum and should be wrapped up before too long. A murder had taken place in an ancient library at St Saviour’s College and they had set up a temporary base in the Classics section, to Hathaway’s great delight. He had therefore been in rare form, browsing the bookshelves in between interviews and discussing ancient civilisations with the students and professors. James had been wearing yellow socks for days (bad for fashion, but as they stood for cheerfulness and confidence, Lewis couldn’t really complain).

Robbie had greatly enjoyed watching him during the past few days, energised and enthusiastic, forging real connections with the people they came into contact with.

But then he made a mistake. He got so used to this new state that he forgot it was still Hathaway underneath the intellectual joviality. Forgot that underneath this joking persona was someone deeply uncomfortable sharing personal information.

It was about a woman; Francesca Harding, a post-grad who also worked at the library part-time. She had been making eyes at James ever since they arrived. This was not a particularly unusual occurrence, as ‘the dishy Sergeant Hathaway’ seemed to turn heads wherever they went, but the unusual thing was that James was actually paying her a bit of attention. Not as much as Robbie thought he should be, a beautiful young thing like that, but it was a start. She had been tasked with keeping them stocked with tea and helping coordinate their witness interviews, so they had lots of time to talk (mainly about the Hellenic religion, but Robbie thought that for James that was probably pretty flirtatious.)

“She’s a good one, isn’t she?” Robbie nodded over at where Francesca sat at the library reception desk. “Been very helpful over the past few days, you know...”

Hathaway took a quick glance over and returned his gaze to his paperwork. “She certainly has some interesting ideas about the Delphic Maxims…” he agreed.

“Delphic wotsits?” Robbie shook his head. “Never mind. Just thought I should say, you know… Uh, well, she’s not a suspect or witness or anything, so… you know…”

James looked up and regarded Robbie carefully.

“You keep saying ‘you know’. But I assure you I don’t.”

Robbie rubbed the back of his neck as he struggled to find the right phrasing.

 “It’s just that she’s not really involved with the case,… you wouldn’t be breaking any boundaries, like…” When he still looked blank, Robbie added, “So… It’d be fine for you to ask her out.”

“I see.” James said haughtily, “thank you for the permission,” He turned back to his paperwork and that seemed to be the end of the conversation on his part.

But Robbie couldn’t leave it at that. Later in the afternoon as they were packing up for the day he leaned over to James and nudged him in Francesca’s direction, making incredibly unsubtle motions with his eyebrows for him to go over. James scowled at him, but did go over to speak to her. Robbie watched as they talked, noticing her nervous blush and James’ awkward stance, arms twisting behind his back. He grinned to himself and went out to wait by the car.

James lumbered out a few minutes later, steps heavy. Robbie took one look at his grimace and clapped him on the shoulder in manly consolation.

“It can’t have been that bad! She’s been into you since the minute we stepped into the place. Can’t believe she wouldn’t go for it.”

James looked at the ground, mouth a thin, tense line.

“Can we not talk about it, sir… I’ll make my own way back. See you tomorrow.” He walked away leaving Robbie stunned, leaning heavily on the car. He didn’t understand; she had seemed so keen.

The next day when Robbie arrived at the station the Floral Lexicon was splayed open on his desk a large circle drawn in pencil around one of the entries. It showed a picture of a withered bouquet of flowers with the description of ‘rejected love’. Robbie knew immediately that James was going to be wearing brown socks that day.

It was strange though. Francesca had not been very subtle and Robbie had been so sure she was into him. Added to that the next time Robbie saw her she asked after James, and asked him to pass on her phone number. Not the actions of someone uninterested. But perhaps she had changed her mind.

He gave James her phone number, asked if he’d rung her yet, told him to ask her again, kept on at him. For a couple of days he couldn’t help but keep asking. Like picking a scab, he knew that he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. Robbie didn’t know why he was so intrigued by James’ apparent acceptance of her rejection, why it bothered him so much. He told himself it was the detective in him, uncomfortable with pieces of a puzzle that didn’t seem to fit together.

He only realised he had really overstepped when James came into work in black socks for the first time in several months. He refused to be drawn into a conversation about the colour and Robbie noticed the Floral Lexicon was up on a high shelf in the office, rather than in it’s usual position out on James desk. It hit him then that the game was over, he’d pushed to hard. He’d fucked up and ruined all of the progress they had made.

James wore black socks for the next 3 days and things were frosty between them. Robbie hated it, missed the soft, whimsical James, hated that he had no idea what he was thinking, that he had become closed off suddenly. He barely spoke, made excuses to follow leads up on his own and dashed off home early rather than heading back to Robbie’s or hanging round at the office for a chat. 

The case concluded after a frantic few days and the killer caught, but Robbie felt little to celebrate. They usually went to the pub after an arrest, but the atmosphere had been too tense for him to assume they would on that occasion.  However, on his way home James hovered in the doorway just a fraction too long, caught between their usual routine and this new tension and Robbie knew he had to do something to make amends.

“Pint?” He asked.

Thankfully James dipped his head in agreement and before long they were sitting together in the nook of an ancient pub, nursing thoroughly deserved pints in heavy silence.

Robbie took a large swig of beer to steel himself, then jumped into the conversation he knew they needed to have.

“Look, James… I’m sorry about this week.” He fiddled with a beer mat, twirling it round in his stubby fingers. “I shouldn’t have intruded. None of my business.” He looked across at James trying to gauge his reaction to this opening. Would he enter the conversation? Or was Robbie going to have to grovel?

James stared into his pint and was silent for a minute, then said quietly.

“She didn’t reject me, you know.”

“She didn’t?”  


“No…I. I never asked her out.”

“But the withered flowers?” He asked, confused.   


James sighed. “That was about me. _I_ rejected _her_. She asked me for a drink, but I didn’t want to.” He stopped to take a sip of his drink.  “I mean, she has a lot of interesting things to say, but I’m not really interested in anything else.” There was a dangerous look of challenge in his eyes, daring Robbie to ask why. He wasn’t going to ask though, he’d learnt now not to push for more. The fact that he was here, listening to Robbie’s apology was more than enough for the moment.

“Well, I’m doubly sorry then. Sorry I pried, and sorry I got the wrong end of the stick. I won’t mention it again.”

They sat in silence for a little while, then James said, “I could have told you I didn’t want to see her.”

“Don’t be daft, it’s none of my business.”

“It’s just… it’s been fun, this code thing. But sometimes it’s a bit… exposing. That’s all. To have to articulate things.”

Of course it was. Robbie could have kicked himself. He hadn’t thought about that. That it was all Hathaway putting himself out there, putting his feelings up for inspection. Opening himself up. And what had Robbie done?  Ignored what he was saying. Made assumptions when he didn’t know all of the facts. Certainly hadn’t been supportive. He’d been selfish and he felt terrible.   
“I can apologise again, if you like?”

James gave a little laugh, smiled at him and suddenly the tension was gone. “I’d prefer a liquid apology, if possible.” He said and tapped his empty beer glass. Robbie got the next round and they spent the rest of the evening talking about other things.

The next day James came into the office in the same green socks as the first day, propping his legs up on the desk for a minute to show them off before withdrawing them elegantly. He accompanied the revelation with a side grin that could only mean ‘I accept your apology’.

“I’ve got something for you too,” Robbie told him. He pulled up his trouser leg to reveal the very same green socks (or the nearest he’d been able to get at a 24 hour Tescos).

“Not that you’re predictable or anything, but I though green would also be a good colour for the start of a more mutual conversation.”

James stared at him, eyes wide. “What?”

Robbie grinned. “Didn’t seem like you should have all of the fun. I want in on the action too. Plus...been feeling a bit boring in me black socks the past few weeks!”  He didn’t add – ‘I want you to feel comfortable doing this so you will keep talking about your feelings with me,’ but from the genuine smile he received from the lad, he suspected James heard it anyway. He was a clever thing after all.

It appeared the game was back on, but now there were two players, which seemed like it could be much more fun. Robbie had agreed with himself to take part, and also to try and listen a bit harder to what James was _not_ saying as well as what he was. He’d have to explore his obsession with James’ love life later on, for now he was just going to enjoy having him back on side.  On his lunch break Robbie used the office computer to order a giant multi-pack of coloured socks from Amazon. He was going to take this ridiculous game seriously now he knew how it felt to be without it.  


	4. Two-way conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A single short chapter today. I was planning on 2 - this short, silly one, and a longer more serious one. But the second is proving slightly harder to wrangle, so you just get this!

The game was far more satisfying with two participants. The jokes were funnier, the sarcasm deeper and whilst the code had proved insightful for Robbie when it was James’ thoughts, it became something more with the two of them. A conversation rather than a monologue.

They still used the Floral Lexicon for inspiration, for the colour interpretations and the wonderful phrases that were included. Like the Red Camellia Japonica which meant ‘unpretending excellence’ (a tongue in check remark by James the day after he’d cracked a tough case) or Wild Liquorice which stood for ‘I declare against you’ (used by Robbie when a suspect rubbed him up the wrong way).

But often they didn’t need the Lexicon at all as they understood each other without having to explain. Now that Robbie was listening to James and felt more tuned in to him they could have the conversation non-verbally. They both learnt the common colours and emotions so they didn’t need to be discussed in detail.

Sage green meant: ‘Perseverance’ – Even though we seem to be getting no-where in the case, keep going! We can do it.

Burnt orange meant: ‘With respect, I disagree with you’ -useful for days when they had differing thoughts on the case.

Grey meant: ‘I’m struggling, but don’t ask me about it’ and usually elicited an offer to visit the pub at the end of the day for some mutual but silent support.

The Floral Lexicon told them, unsurprisingly, that white meant ‘Innocent’, so on days when the pair knew they were in for a bollocking from herself, they both committed the fashion faux pas and paired their dark suits with white sports socks. They had to swallow giggles, standing in front of her, accepting her reprimands while at the same time sporting a defiant token. It may have been borderline insubordination but they had always taken authority with a pinch of salt, and it provided a sense of solidarity, sharing that little secret, which helped with the telling off.

Some colours became more familiar than others, and Hathaway admitted he had actually had to purchase a new set of mustard yellow ones (for scepticism)– as that emotion was all too frequent in his life, and his washing schedule couldn’t quite keep up.  

They didn’t play every day. Sometimes catching villains got in the way of the game, and there was not time in the morning to carefully chose coloured socks. At a couple of early morning call-out’s they had sniggered at the inappropriateness of whatever coloured socks they had pulled out of the drawer whilst grappling around in the dark at 5am. Robbie personal best was a particularly bright shade of orange (meaning betrayal), whilst James was still mortified with his candy pink (‘consumed by love’) pair worn when stood over the corpse of an 87 year old retired Beekeeper.

If their colleagues noticed anything strange about the new rainbow range of Robbie’s socks they didn’t mentioned anything. Of course, James had been sporting coloured socks ever since he started in CID so perhaps they thought his influence had inspired the Inspector.

Innocent noticed a change, although Robbie didn’t think she’d cottoned on to the precise reason. At the end of a briefing about a new case she looked at them both carefully, sitting in front of her in their usual almost-touching position.

“Something’s different between you two.” She said. “You’ve been getting on far better than normal recently. Haven’t seen either of you sulking for weeks. Why is that, do you think?”

  
James looked over at Robbie trying to hide a bit of a smirk then straightened in his seat and said “We’ve been working on our enhanced communication techniques, Ma’am. As per your orders.”

Robbie felt her keen eyes on him. “As usual, your request has improved our effectiveness”, he added.

She swept them with an amused look, clearly knowing that wasn’t the whole story but willing to humour them.

“Excellent. Well, keep it up gentleman.”

This wasn’t to say that they only used the code to discuss professional feelings. Since Francesca Harding Robbie was aware how useful it could be to discuss things they didn’t normally.

One day at a scene he was chatting in his usual manner to Laura when he overheard some sniggering and a whisper between a couple of Constables- something about ‘lovebirds’. It could only have been about himself and Laura, he knew their close relationship had caused rumours around the station.

James looked at him, eyebrow raised, but didn’t ask the question Robbie knew he wanted to.

He realised he had never had that conversation with James, the ‘me and Laura are just friends’ talk, and suddenly it seemed important he should know -even if the rest of the station would still gossip about them like old fishwives.

The next day he snuck into the office early to leave the Lexicon out on Hathaway’s desk with a post-it, scribbled with ‘Me and Laura’, stuck next to the entry for the yellow rose (‘platonic affection’). He tried to ignore James as he came into the office, but couldn’t help himself sneak a look at him peeling off the post-it and reading the entry.

James walked over to Robbie’s desk and leant against the office wall, shaking the post-it gently between his fingers.

“Won’t be needing my Myrrh colour today then.” He said, pulling up his trouser leg to show an ochre coloured sock. “I was all ready to wish you and the good doctor glad tidings.”

“No need. We’re just friends ‘an that’s all. Known her far too long for any of that.” Robbie replied and stretched out to grab the post-it, crumpling it into a tiny ball and chucking it across the office, straight into the bin. He pumped his fist in triumph and James rolled his eyes and went to sit down at his desk.

Robbie had toyed with the idea of telling Laura about the game. She was his friend and he wanted to share this with her- it felt meaningful to him and he wanted to talk about it, explore it with her – see if she could help him make sense of the fluttering that started in his chest when James pulled up his trouser leg each morning. But he stopped himself, partly because he like the thought of James and him having this private thing, and also because he didn’t really think she’d understand why it was so important to him. Afraid she might tell him to ‘grow up’. It’s sort of what he thought himself, as the last time he’d felt this giddy over something so stupid it had been passing rude doodles to Debbie Morton in 4th year English class.


	5. Another day, another case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...got around to this quicker than I thought! Just a bit of Robbie being emotionally unintelligent (what's new!).

Another day, another case, another murder. But despite the senseless waste of life, a young student slaughtered, the discomfort of dealing with her family and friends, the frustrations of being at the start of a case with no leads, Robbie was feeling remarkably tranquil.

He walked calmly though the crowded corridors of St Aldates station pondering the agenda for the day and whether he would be able to go back and visit the community centre where the victim volunteered. The old ladies there had been nice. They had given him cake. Perhaps he could swing another visit… what good was it being in charge if you couldn’t sometimes choose a pleasant task for yourself?

His good mood apparently wasn’t shared by everyone. Innocent gave him a hard time before he even got to his office, berating him in the corridor (something about budgets, he wasn’t really paying attention), and James, well, James looked like he might fall asleep at his desk.

“Bad night?” Robbie asked, taking in his tight expression (as if he had a number of wasps in his mouth), his rigid body language and the angry red socks just visible beneath the desk.

James nodded and rubbed a slow hand over his face.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He said. “Couldn’t stop thinking about that bastard Hodder.”

“Bastard, eh?” That was a surprise, James rarely swore.

“Yes, sir. And that’s restrained of me. I know we don’t have any evidence he’s connected to the murder, but he makes my skin crawl.”

James had spoken to Joseph Hodder the day before. He wasn’t a suspect exactly, but knew the victim and didn’t have an alibi for the time of the murder. A couple of the victim’s friends had complained about his ‘complete lack of empathy’ and that he made them uncomfortable, so James had been dispatched to speak to him whilst Robbie was out on another enquiry.

James was usually immune to the odd and obnoxious that they encountered but something about this bloke made him prickle. He was smug, bigoted and frankly delusional about the amount of power he held within his social circle. James had loathed him on sight.   

“I’m afraid you’ll have to speak to him again today.” Robbie said. “Ask him whether or not he knew the victim’s new boyfriend.”

James clenched his fists by his sides.

“Do we really need to?”

“You can’t have it both ways, Sergeant.” Robbie said with a sharp look. “Either he’s an unstable psychopath and therefore a legitimate suspect- in which case you need to speak to him again. Or he’s not, in which case you need to pull yourself together and stop whining about him.”

James narrowed his eyes. “And it has to be me?”

“Continuity of dialogue, Hathaway – I’m sure your massive brain remembers that particularly gripping seminar.” He started to paraphrase the instructor and mimic his nasal voice, “increased rates of confession are obtained where one officer is assigned to each suspect…” he trailed off when he saw the resigned sulk cloud James’ face. “Besides, I’ve got to follow up a few leads with her tutors, and then the community centre.”

“I swear, Sir. If he spouts any more of that hateful bullshit, I’m going to lose my temper.”

“Calm down, Lad.” Robbie said with a chuckle. “He can’t be that bad. You need to chill out a bit!” He nudged James with his elbow.

“Like you?”  
“Oh, very Zen, me!” To illustrate the point he stretched out to show his pale blue socks.

Two hours and a few tedious conversations with the victims tutors later, Robbie’s phone range while he strode through the leafy quad of Balliol. He stopped to answer it.

“James?”

“Sir. Just thought you should know I’ve arrested him.”

  
“What?”

“Hodder, Sir. I’ve arrested him. Bringing him into custody now.” His voice was clipped and tight across the line and Robbie could tell he was struggling to keep his temper in check. He sighed.

“Right…Ok… I’ll see you back in 10.”

Back at the station, James paced around their tiny office as much as his stupidly long legs would let him. Robbie watched him carefully.

“It was him, Sir. I know it. He almost said so himself!”

“Almost isn’t good enough though, Sergeant.” Robbie said. “I hope you had a good reason to arrest him. Didn’t let the ‘bastard’ provoke you into it.” He was teasing but James obviously didn’t feel in the mood for joking.

James stopped sharply and turned to face Robbie, eyes glinting icily.  “Alright, Mr ‘Zen’, why don’t _you_ go and interview the psychopath and _I’ll_ go and have tea with the old ladies at the community centre? See how calm you are once you’re in there with him!”

He planted his hands palm down on Robbie’s desk and leaned over, eyes held firmly with Robbie’s.

From anyone else it would have provoked a reprimand for dis-respecting a senior officer, but Robbie just huffed a laugh, slapped him on the shoulder and agreed to swap tasks. He wondered whether James might benefit from one of those anger management courses Innocent was always offering the pair of them.

He spent the whole afternoon locked in an interview room with Joseph Hodder, and within the first 5 minutes, to his embarrassment, he concurred with Hathaway. The man was disturbed. And although they were no clearer to proving it, he was equally convinced of his guilt. It was galling to be think that he had been teasing James all day about the man and then fall prey to it himself, especially after his vow to take James' emotions seriously. To listen to him more carefully. Clearly he was still going to have to work on that. 

Emerging from the interview room that evening he brushed past James, leaning against a wall in the corridor, eyebrow quirked.  

“Not a word, Sergeant.” He growled, and swept off up the hall to seek a much needed cuppa.

The next day he turned up wearing a weary frown from too little sleep, ready to concede to James and admit he was wrong to be so blasé about Hodder. 

 James was sitting on a chair in the middle of the office so Robbie came and perched on the edge of his desk, so they were close enough to speak quietly.

“You were right, he bloody well gets into your head, doesn’t he?”

James tilted his head in sympathy. “Yep. Knew just what to say to rile me up. And I can see by your red socks he found your weak spot.”

They both looked down at Robbie’s crossed feet, braced against the carpet. The red socks a startlingly bright shade.

“Weak spots, more like. Think he found every one of me inner demons!” He pulled his lips into a half-smile, half-frown. “He still grating on you today, or has it worn off yet?”

“Unfortunately, the thought of him is still making me angry.” James replied and pulled up his trouser to show the same colour red socks as the day before.  

Then, unexpectedly, he stretched out his leg to meet Robbie’s, clinking them together at the ankle as you would wine glasses.

A quick tap of red on red, a game of snap, which James met with his twisted side-grin, but it sent a thrill right through Robbie. Struggling not to blush as red as his socks at the sudden thoughts of what it would feel like to press his bare ankle to James’ bony one, he forced himself to concentrate.

He tucked his leg under his chair and out of sight, stood up and cleared his throat.

“Right Hathaway, let’s get the bastard.”

*******

The night they successfully charged Joseph Hodder with murder, Robbie lay in bed thinking over the case. He tried to focus on the satisfying moment they had finally been able to link him to the crime, but his mind kept careering back to the electric sizzle provoked in him by a bit of contact with James’ ankle. This was joined by the distant memory of Debbie Morton once again, and the first time she put her hand on his thigh under his wooden desk. The combination of the two memories crashed together and suddenly he understood why they had become entwined. Just like with Debbie, he must have a crush on James! That was the way he was behaving. Feeling giggly and childish, putting so much importance in to snatched bits of conversation and presses of ankle creating sparks.  

The feeling was so familiar. Not just Debbie then. Flashes of Susan (his first real girlfriend), Val in the early days. Tummy fizzing with the excitement of talking to them, even if only to offer chewing gum or tease them about being a swot ‘cause they’d done all of their homework.

With James he didn’t feel it all of the time. – they had worked together for so long that day to day they were comfortable professionals. But the fleeting moments of personal contact within the day and suddenly the giddiness overtook him. A jolt of excitement and adrenaline just from a shared joke or look and he seemed to revert to his 14 year old self. How did he not know this about himself?

Perhaps surprisingly for an old bloke, usually resistant to change, it didn’t bother him that much. Caused a sleepless night and a few confused ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ days over the next week, but all in all he was fine with the revelation. Knew his daughter would rib him something silly, of course. Tease him worse than ever about his Bruce Springsteen obsession. Not that he fancied ‘The Boss’ but she’d always find something to laugh at him about.

In recent years he’d come across enough variety in sexual orientation, sat through a couple of seminars on it as well, to know that one crush didn’t mean he had to re-evaluate his whole life.  It was just that it complicated things, didn’t it? And he hadn’t known, hadn’t seen it coming. Some detective he was. Always been crap at…what does Innocent call it? …emotional intelligence. But at the end of the day it was just a crush. Didn’t matter in the scheme of things. Hypothetical really, as he wouldn’t dream of acting on it (for so many reasons his mind shut down at the thought) there was no reason to think about it.

It was just another thing he hadn’t known about himself. Like that time he’d had a seriously erotic dream about Judy Dench. He hadn’t seen that coming. Had never fantasised about someone in their 80’s before, but she seemed like a nice lady, and you know, she was pretty cool in James Bond. But it didn’t mean he was going to start hanging out down his local retirement home in the hope of bagging himself a horny pensioner. Just as this didn’t mean he had to mess things up with James by letting on.


	6. Crimson

Something was definitely growing between them. Between the private smiles of shared secrets. The giggle of the ridiculousness of the game. The mutual acknowledgement of personal struggles. Robbie could feel it bloom like the painted flowers from the pages of the Lexicon. It was an undefined emotion taking in Robbie’s blue-grey socks that said ‘Thank you for shielding me from that grieving widower’ and James’ turquoise ones that said ‘I trust you to tell me when to stop my obsession with this line of enquiry.'

So it continued, James becoming more and more open thanks to the ability to borrow the words of the lexicon, rather than voice them himself, and Robbie becoming more and more affected by each days insight. And if he was honest, more and more affected by the beauty of James Hathaway and his coloured ankles. He was beginning to understand the Victorian’s obsession with the erotic nature of the ankle, his focus being drawn to that area made it far more interesting than a tiny sliver of bone should be. Getting tantalising glimpses as James walked across a crime scene or sat cross legged on his office chair. At least he had an excuse if James noticed him staring at them; he was just thinking about the code.

******

One sunny afternoon about a month after Robbie had joined the game they were having coffee sitting outside one of the teashops on The High, putting together a plan of action for the afternoon.

“I’d like to speak to Mr de Mello again.” James said. “I’m sure he’s not telling us something.”

Robbie was staring into space, only half listening to what James was saying.  

“And I’d like to see Sophie Davenport again.”  

“I’m sure you would.” Hathaway smirked, raising an eyebrow suggestively. Miss Davenport was a very attractive lady around Robbie’s age who was a key witness in their current case. James had obviously noticed how attractive he found her. Robbie fiddled with his coffee cup and tried not to blush.  He wasn’t ashamed of his reaction, she was a beautiful and kind lady who had been nothing but helpful, but as a rule him and James didn’t share the usual sort of blokey banter about girls. Especially after last time. James obviously thought the same thing as he blushed a little and looked shocked at himself.

“Forget I said that… I know it’s none of my business – after I gave you a hard time about prying with Francesca Harding.”

“Nonsense, I’ve nothing to hide!” Robbie grinned. “Why do you think I’m wearing such a deep shade of red today?”  He wiggled his foot just out of the side of the table so James could see the deep red socks he had selected that morning thinking of the radiant Miss Davenport.

Relief flooded James face and he relaxed back in his seat.

“Hmmm, let me think… crimson, that shade -if I’m not mistaken. Passion is it, sir? Desire?” His mouth was pulled tight trying to hold back a teasing laugh.

“It’s not for anger that’s for sure!” He gave James a quick wink to share the joke and make sure they were both on the same page.

The case progressed for a further 8 days and throughout that time James continued to mock him about his attraction to Miss Davenport. Gently though, and with affection, so it felt good. Like normal bloke stuff, relaxed and unselfconscious. 

However, in the end the lady in question turned out to be part of the whole conspiracy behind the murder, so Robbie rapidly forgot about her lovely smile and flawless skin, until a week or so later, on another case.

It was over another alfresco cup of coffee, although this one being enjoyed on a quiet bench on the lawn of Exeter College. They’d had a long, cold day interviewing members of a gardening society and were trying to warm up with a hot drink.

“How much did you find out from Nicholas Harvey this afternoon? He remembered anything else?” Robbie asked.

“Nothing specific.”

Nicholas had been particularly helpful informing them of the activities of the society and telling them about an incident involving the victim. He was a posh chap, youngish but older than the undergrads. Tall and dark with broad shoulders and a confident smile. He hadn’t opened up to Robbie but James seemed to be doing well with him. They had spent most of the day before talking, and a good hour again that day.

“Looked like you were getting on like a house on fire! Got much more out of him than I did. Don’t think he likes me very much!” Robbie laughed, as always, well-aware that his accent and manner didn’t endear him to a certain type of witness.

James made a twisted sort of half-smile, and started to stare fixedly at his coffee cup, turning it in his large hands.

“He was very helpful...as it goes… Found out we were at the same college at Cambridge actually, although a few years apart…so it…uh… helped him to…well… trust me…” Robbie looked up at James in surprise, he rarely stumbled over his words. He studied him for a second and yes, he was looking down and his pale ears were flushed just a little bit pink. Something was definitely up.

“Had a lot to talk about then?”

James hummed in agreement then added, “Not really about the case though, I’m afraid…”

“James?” Robbie questioned, still unsure what the problem was. James looked up at him then pulled one leg up until his foot rested on the corner of his bar stool, exposing one deep crimson sock.

“Why do you think I’m wearing red today?” He asked shyly.  Robbie eyed him shrewdly, the echo of their conversation about Sophie Davenport sharp in his mind.

“It’s not for anger then?” He asked, even though the shy blush still gracing James’ features already told him the answer.

“Not for anger, no.” A smile started, visible even with James’ head ducked away from him. Robbie saw him glance up at him hesitantly.

“Hope we don’t have to arrest him later in the week then.” He said, swatting James playfully on the arm. “I can only wish you more luck than I have meeting people on a case.”

James gave a wide and genuine smile, a rare sight, that made Robbie glow with reciprocal happiness. It was the most personal thing James had ever talked about, or insinuated, seeing as he hadn’t actually said the words, and perhaps that was the point.

“He has a partner actually, so I won’t be seeing him again.” James turned to Robbie and his smile turned to a cheeky grin. “Probably for the best, seeing as hehad a problem with you.”

“Yeah, poor judge of character, obviously! Uh… Thanks for telling me. Or…showing me really with the…” He gestured to James socks.

This meant even more to Robbie actually, that James was telling him because he wanted him to know this about him, rather than needing to. It’s not like he’s asking permission, just sharing something personal about himself because he felt he could. 

They sat in silence for a minute, the air charged with prickly tension. James no doubt panicking about this revelation, and Robbie arguing with himself whether to mention any of his own recent thoughts on the subject. He wanted to reciprocate to reward James for his candour, match his confession, but he was irrationally scared and wasn’t sure he could force the words out.

He could just wait tell him as James had done, using the code. But to follow the established pattern he’d have to use the colour to indicate someone specific he found attractive. Seeing as the only man he had eyes for was James, that was hardly going to work.

He was still trying to decide when James’ voice cut through his thoughts.

“Go on then… ask your questions. I can practically hear your brain whirring.”

Robbie flicked his eyes up to James, sitting nervously, braced for whatever he would ask.

“Actually, I was trying to decide what to _tell_ you, rather than what to _ask_.” He said.

“Tell me?” James echoed, eyes screwed up in confusion.  

“Well…” Robbie fiddled with his shirt cuff. “I joined in this game so you wouldn’t be baring your soul on your own.”

“Really? I thought you did it because you were bored with black socks.” James said blandly, although softer than his usual sarcasm.

Robbie gave him the ‘I’m trying to be serious here’ face and James turned back to staring at his hands.

“The thing is…I think I’ve been… uh… ‘feeling crimson’…” he glanced down at his socks “…for a man lately too.”

James’ head shot up to look at him. Robbie could feel his eyes burning into him.

He continued. “Same as you, not going to do anything about it, but as you just told me… well, I thought you should know.”

There was a silent pause whilst James took all of this new information in.”

“Um, thanks. I take it this is a rather… new development for you?”

Robbie nodded.

“Can I ask what brought it on?”

Robbie shifted in his seat uncomfortably. How did he get himself into this situation? How could he explain without it being obvious he was talking about James.

 “Been, uh… seeing him… this person… differently recently. Just realised, you know, might have a bit of a crush.”

“A crush? I thought you were 59, not 12!” James laughed.

“That’s what it feels like, man!- It’s this ridiculous sock thing isn’t it! Making me feel like a teenager again.”  
  
James raised an eyebrow. “So it’s the socks, is it? Didn’t have you down as a podophiliac.”  
  
“A what?”  
  
“A foot fetishist, sir. Someone who-”

  
“Yes, thank you. I know what it means.” Robbie interrupted.

“So, why aren’t you going to do anything about it?”

“I don’t want to ruin our friendship.” Robbie said, then panicked as he realised how that sounded, how close to the truth to be saying it to James. “I don’t want to make things awkward with _him_.”

James leant back on the bench and took a long breath. Then he turned to Robbie and said softly.

“Robbie, just so you know… It’s not just Nicholas that I’m wearing the red socks for.” He gave him a heated look. Surely, he couldn’t mean what Robbie thought. “So if you ever wanted to – explore – this crush on your _friend_. I might be able to help.”

James shifted on the bench, moving slightly towards Robbie. They always sat close, so it was only a matter of centimetres before his whole leg was pushed against Robbie’s from ankle to thigh. Yes, it definitely was what he thought; James was coming on to him. Christ! He felt a heat rising under his collar.

They stared at each other, faces so close Robbie could see the flecks of James’ blonde stubble starting to poke through the taut skin of his jaw.

“Sir…” James turned and slid his hand along the back of the bench. Robbie could feel the heat of it just behind his shoulder blades. He bent to place his empty coffee cup on the floor, not sure what he was going to do with his hands, but knowing he wanted them free.  He then turned back towards James -but as he looked up he was distracted by a familiar face walking across the lawn to his side.

“Shit!”

“What?” James flinched and pulled his arm back.

“No – not you.” Said Robbie – glancing at James then gesturing to the man he’d recognised, now walking away from them. “Behind you… That’s Simon Plumridge. The boyfriend we’ve been looking for all week! We’ve got to go after him.”

He took an agonised look at James then put his hand on his thigh, rubbing gently.  “We’ll come back to this conversation.”

Robbie stood up to track the man’s progress across the quad.

“Is that a promise?” He heard James ask, but Mr Plumridge had just turned the corner of the street and Robbie didn’t have time to answer before starting to jog after him. He pushed thoughts of James out of his mind. This could be vital to the investigation, so he needed to be focused on the chase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the tease! It's for their own good, honest!  
> Just one more chapter to go.


	7. Lavender

And then it all went to hell. One minute he was chasing Simon Plumridge down the street, dodging pedestrians and streetlamps, flashing his maroon socks to the world on each pounding step, the next he was twisted up in a ball of metal and limbs, thudding to the concrete with a crunch of bone. He flailed wildly on the way down but although his hands stopped his head from hitting the ground, his left leg had already met the front wheel of the speeding bicycle. Pain flashed through his hands and leg, confusion and noise surrounded him.

He couldn’t coordinate to move his head but out of the corner of his eye he made out the young woman knocked to the floor, gingerly pushing herself up with shaking hands, and hear the gears and chains of the mangled bicycle rattle as it was pulled away from him.

“Robbie!” He could barely focus on the name over the pain radiating through him as he lay unmoving on the ground. That was James’ voice frantic and saying his name over and over. He’d never called him Robbie before, but it sounded beautiful in his deep voice, even as panicked as he was. Robbie felt him kneel at his side and strong fingers frame his face.

“Robbie can you hear me?”

Robbie grunted in response. It was the most he could manage.

James’ face came into view, stricken and wide eyed. His eyes were dancing between Robbie’s face and his left side, obviously something there wasn’t right - that matched the pain was pulsing through his leg. Robbie managed to look over to his left. James was right to be distracted his ankle was pressed round at an unnatural angle. Broken for sure… that explained the pain then.  

 “Hold on the ambulance is on it’s way.”

Disorientated, Robbie managed to croak out, “wha’ happened?”

“You were hit by a cyclist.” Said James, voice shaking. “But you’re alright. You will be alright.”

“Wha’ ‘bout the cyclist?”

“She’ll be fine too. She’s on her feet – don’t worry about her now, there’s others with her… you just make sure you stay focused on me. You managed to avoid hitting your head at least…” He was white as a sheet and rambling. Robbie found it difficult to focus on his words due to the competing areas of pain. The sharp stabbing in his ankle, the hot throbbing of the grazes on his hands and the burn of his wrists where he’d landed heavily. Instead he tried to concentrate on the warm hands around his face, thumbs pressing in front of his ears and long fingers cradling the back of his head.

An ambulance must have been stationed nearby as it seemed to take no time at all before James was told to let go and was escorted away so the paramedics could start their assessment.

James managed to blag his way into the back of the ambulance, and although Robbie couldn’t hear him over the noise of the engine, the paramedic’s chatter and the monitors he felt a warm hand press over the maroon sock on his uninjured leg, the only part of him that James was able to reach, and he heard his concern loud and clear.

The rest of the afternoon went by in a flash of pain, corridors, doctors and bright overhead lights. The next time he was fully aware of proceedings was waking up groggy and being told he’d had a minor operation to set his ankle back in position. Now they were just going to wait for some of the swelling to go down before they put him in a cast, which would be the next day at the earliest. 

It was absolutely typical that it was his ankle, wasn’t it. After that part of the body had been so much a focus over the past few months – had taken on so much significance. His first, irrational thought, with a familiar twist of sorrow was that he wouldn’t be able to play the game anymore – he wouldn’t be able to fit a sock over whatever cast he ended up with. The realisation that he had two feet and therefore could technically still play didn’t ease the tension. He knew this would signal the end.

It was agony, obviously, but after the surgery they had put him on some good painkillers and the pain had started to lose its sharp edge. The feeling of being in hospital was also a familiar one after so many years of chasing criminals – he’d been in a good few scrapes resulting in treatment, not including the personal visits -appendicitis, children with broken arms, visiting ill relatives. 

He looked forward to seeing James and carrying on their conversation after such a rude interruption. He had popped in whilst Robbie had been coming around from the surgery – to drop off a bag of overnight things, but Robbie hadn’t been up to conversation and he had left again very quickly. Visiting hours were over so it would be the next day now and Robbie could barely sleep for thinking about it. Every time James came into his mind he would get a fizzy bubble of anticipation in his stomach – would they really be able to work something out? It helped him through the lonely night to imagine what they might get up to.

*****

Laura was his first visitor the next day, although he spoke to his daughter on the phone – reassuring her that he was fine and wouldn’t need her nursing skills. She didn’t take kindly to this and he knew she would be ringing up to check on him at least once a day.

After 10 minutes on her own James quietly shuffled in behind her, looking wrecked. He clearly hadn’t slept, dark bags clung to his eyes and his body practically vibrated with tension. He wasn’t looking at Robbie, but fidgeting with whatever was in reach – the curtain, the bed rail, a empty trolley.

Laura’s chatter filled the room, her admonishment of his carelessness, running out into the road like that, how he was lucky to just have a broken ankle, worrying how he would manage alone in his flat incapacitated. Robbie barely listened, tracking instead James’ restless movements and trying to understand his silence. He should have predicted this – the lad was clearly rattled, whether shock from the accident or whatever guilt or shame he had talked himself into over their conversation yesterday.

After Laura had exhausted her worrying and filled him in on the latest news from the station, she said her goodbyes and left to get back to work. At her departure James also made his excuses but Robbie couldn’t let him leave the room without saying something at least.

“James!” He called. “A minute?”

James looked up reluctantly and shuffled back into the room, head bowed.

“You ok, lad?”  
“Fine.”  
“You sure?”

“I’m not the one with the broken leg.”

This was tight lipped James in typical shut-down mode. As hard to converse with as a brick wall. Robbie had learnt long ago there was no point asking any more questions when he was like this, they’ll just be wriggled out of. Better off just to talk.

Out of habit he looked down to asses James’ sock colour and was startled to see a colour unworn since they’d been playing the game. They were familiar – he recognised them as a favourite pair from years back, when they’d first started working together.

“Haven’t seen the lavender ones on you for a bit.” Not since we started the game, he thought. “Do they stand for ‘I’m supposed to be the accident prone one…?”

James looked down at his feet and shrugged. “Oh… I just pulled them on this morning. Didn’t think about it…”

Robbie’s internal bullshit alarm sounded almost deafeningly. There was no way James had just happened upon them after not wearing them for such a long time. He’d been meticulous about his daily choices for months now.

He opened his mouth to interrogate further but before his drug-slowed mind could form the words James made his excuses and left the room. He did however promise to come and pick Robbie up from the hospital when he got discharged. Not entirely standoffish then, just back to being a closed book.

Robbie slumped back onto his pillows staring at the curtain James had disappeared between and wracked his brains to think of the meaning for lavender. But the drugs floating through his system made him slow and the answer, although he felt it was important, lay just outside his grasp.

As he was contemplating this, Innocent rang to check up on him. Considering he was in hospital due to an accident occurring at work, he was feeling cheeky (and desperate), enough to ask for a favour; that someone bring him the large Victorian book that was on his desk.

If she found the request odd she kept it to herself – probably far too used to indulging his strange whims. A uniformed constable dropped it in to him within the hour, a note stuck to the front in Innocent’s looping cursive ‘I don’t understand, but do whatever helps you feel better!’

Robbie waited 30 seconds for the Constable to leave, then, suddenly unsettled and desperate for the information, ripped open the book, tearing through the pages feverishly until he reached the page explaining the meanings of various shades of purple. He stopped and stared at it, his heart flickering rapidly as he read and reread the entries.

‘A light purple is the colour of sincere and eternal romantic love. Lavender voices your deepest love and admiration for someone. Lilac symbolises a first love or love at first sight.’

He agonised at first over whether the shade had been lavender or lilac, but then realised it didn’t matter. It amounted to the same thing.

If he was right in his assessment that James chose those socks specifically -because Robbie had been injured…well… put that together with the panicked hurt in his face after the accident, his reluctance to talk about the colour, it could only mean one thing, couldn’t it?

  
Robbie collapsed back onto the bed again and let the thought flow through him. He smiled from the bottom of his heart, he couldn’t believe it. It had been incredible enough that James might be attracted to him in some way, but love! From there everything dropped into place. An epiphany, like when all of the pieces of an investigation suddenly _fit._ James’ feelings, and his own finally came fully into focus. They were a pair of idiots, weren’t they? Or he was. James, at least, must know his own heart if he was able to choose the lavender or lilac…  even if only willing to admit out loud to a passing attraction.

Well, stuff that. He turned Innocent’s noted in between his fingers, re-reading the message… in his disorientated state it almost seemed like permission.

A nurse popped her head around his curtain and announced that it was time to plaster his leg up. She pushed in a trolley covered with towels, a tub of water and rolls of plaster, and suddenly Robbie knew exactly what to do to broach the subject and properly explain himself to James.

*****

Half an hour later Robbie lay back on his bed and stared down at his plastered ankle with a grin. The nurse had looked at him strangely when he’d first asked for the lavender coloured plaster but eventually she’d praised his ‘bold choice’ and said she liked a man unafraid to embrace pastel colours.

He texted James and asked him to pick him up from the hospital as he was getting discharged that afternoon, he spent the rest of the day struggling to learn how to walk using crutches and trembling with nerves at the thought of James seeing his lavender ankle.

He felt fairly confident that they were on the same page. They had made so much progress learning how to read one another, but there was still the possibility that James really had just picked up those socks at random – and then he’d know exactly how Robbie felt. Harder to shrug off a purple cast than a choice of sock, it would be very obvious he’d done it on purpose.

*******

James arrived exactly on time. Robbie heard his long-strided rhythmic steps down the ward and held his breath. He stepped round the curtain and took a long gasp at Robbie’s leg, stretched out on top of the bed sheet.

“What is that?” James laughed out involuntarily as he stared at the cast. Freshly applied the bright plaster stuck out sharply against the white bed sheets and the light blue walls and curtains.

“Well, I won’t be wearing socks for a while. Not a pair anyway, thought this might do instead.”

“Uh, Ok. But it’s a pretty permanent choice.” James said softly.

Robbie forced himself to look him in the eye.  
“It’s a pretty permanent feeling.”

He looked over to the lexicon laying open on top of his bag at the end of the bed. James’ gaze followed, and Robbie could see the moment he registered what it was. The page on love was obvious even in his shock. He stared at it for a few seconds, face still blank, then turned back to look at Robbie’s leg.

He moved slowly forward to stand next to the side of the bed.

Robbie put his hand out and hefted the book onto the bed, wincing as it pulled at his sore wrists and grazed palms. He tapped the book with his fingers.

“I didn’t want you to be in any doubt that I know what I’m saying. See, I don’t think you did just stumble upon that pair this morning. I think they have a very specific meaning for you, just as this cast has a very specific meaning for me.  It’s not just ‘thanks for taking me home,’ or ‘you’re a good mate’ or even ‘I’ve got a bit of a crush on you. It’s, well…It’s not just you… I … lavender- No. I… _love_ … you too.” Robbie was glad of the slightly floating feeling of the painkillers to be able to get all of that out, however halting.

James was staring at him, mouth slack.

“I thought you just had a crush.”

“So did I, lad. Turns out I’m an idiot.” 

Robbie pulled his hand off the book and held it up between them. James leaned forward and took it between both of his.

“So you weren’t joking the other day?”

  
“Of course not. I wouldn’t! Not about that.”

James let out a loud exhale and shuffled further forward to sit his hip on the bed, bringing their joint hands to rest on his thigh. Head dipped and shielded away, he spoke quietly.

“I didn’t think you would. And I didn’t think so at the time, but later…it all seemed so unlikely. I thought in my shock at your accident I’d… misinterpreted something. Misremembered.”

“You? Misremember? Impossible!”

They sat holding hands until Robbie decided to be bold and slide his other hand up to the back of James’ neck, pulling him down for a slow and tentative kiss. They were both feeling their way, afraid to overstep unknowable boundaries, but when Robbie pulled away, resting his forehead on James he saw a wide smile to match his own deep joy.

He let go of James’ neck and lay back as a muscle in his back started to pull, aggravated in the accident, but kept hold of his hand.

“I’ve missed those lavender socks, you know. You used to wear them a lot.”

“I couldn’t risk it recently. Knew you’d ask what they stood for, and I wouldn’t be able to lie well enough. Was terrified you’d see through whatever I said.” He paused and quirked his mouth. “I couldn’t help myself today though. It just seemed _right_. And honestly, I thought you’d be a bit preoccupied with all of this,” he swept his arm over the hospital bed, “to notice.”

“The opposite actually.” Robbie said. “I’ve had the whole day here with nothing to think about but the mystery of your sock choice. Best thinking I’ve done in years. The drugs didn’t hurt though, think they let me be a bit more honest with meself than I’d usually allow. Let me say all this an’ all!”

They say there grinning at each other for several minutes before James took the initiative this time and moved in for another kiss.

“You are a ridiculous man.” James said after pulling away and catching sight of his ankle again. “You know you’re going to have that cast on for at least 6 weeks.”  
“Worth it.” Robbie grinned. “Anyway, can’t a man make a grand romantic gesture without being mocked for it.”

“Well, I’m the one who’s going to have to be seen out with you in it.”

“Are you now?”

“What? Did you think I was going to let you mope about on your own for 6 weeks. You’ll not be allowed back into work, you know. Probably not even for paperwork, until the cast’s off.”  
  
“You’re not going to go all Florence Nightingale on me are you?” Robbie teased, but really pleasantly surprised not only that James would want to help him though this, but also that he wouldn’t have to let his daughter come down and help him. He hated being fussed over, but somehow the idea of James doing it didn’t seem so bad.

“What? You don’t think I’d look fetching in a little cap and cloak?”

“As long as that’s all you’re wearing I think I’ll endure it!”

James blushed and squeezed Robbie’s hand in what seemed like a promise.

   
“In fact,” Robbie sighed. “If I’m in my own home I think I could bear just about anything! I’m sick of this place.”

He let James help him scoot forward to the edge of the bed and hand him the dreaded crutches. Then they went slowly in search of the discharge paperwork together.

That night James stayed over at Robbie’s and they slept in the same bed, cuddling through the night. There was little sleep achieved on Robbie’s side due to his leg – the pain still present and the cast making it difficult to settle comfortably. But having James snuggled into his side was compensation enough. He did manage some snatched naps and woke the final time to find the sun streaming in through a crack in the curtain and James beaming up at him.

“Alright?” Robbie asked after he’d fully woken, he certainly looked much better than the previous morning. Radiant rather sullen, with a softness from sleep and tousled morning hair.

A nod. “Are you? How’s the leg?”

  
“A pain in the arse… well, ankle. I couldn’t get comfortable.”

“Sorry -I couldn’t have helped either…”

“Of course you did, made it much nicer to be awake half the night.” Robbie smiled at him but then had to voice some worries that had been nagging at him in the small hours. “Are you alright still though? With all of this? Haven’t had a change of heart? Wondered why on earth you’re cuddled up with your broken old Inspector?”

“Absolutely not.” James said sternly, pulling himself up to look Robbie fully in the eyes. “This is exactly where I want to be.”  He leant down and pressed his mouth to Robbie’s softly and tenderly, being careful not to jolt him or his leg.

“There is only one problem I foresee, Sir. And it’s nothing to do with your age or rank.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah -I don’t know which socks to wear today; yellow for happiness, red for passion or pink for joy?” He grinned down at Robbie, eyes crinkled at the corners, and gave him a playful squeeze.

Robbie returned the grin.

“Just have to get you some multicoloured ones then, won’t we!”

Hopefully that meant that they would continue the game, even through this new phase of their relationship. He just hoped Oxford CID was ready for the appearance of even more brightly coloured hosiery.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is it - a silly end to a silly story, but I hope you've enjoyed it!  
> You really can get purple plaster casts and it just amused me to think of Robbie getting so carried away with the game that he thinks it's a good idea!


End file.
